


Arthur, Unbound

by x_art



Category: King Arthur: Legend of the Sword (2017)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-25 19:26:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13219587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/x_art/pseuds/x_art
Summary: A cloak and gloves against the winter cold, a healing balm, and food in case he was hungry. Considered separately, each instance meant nothing. Taken together, however…





	Arthur, Unbound

 

 

 

Winter

 

 

Arthur hurried.

Down the ridiculously wide staircase at a fast clip, his boot heels ringing on the polished stone. Tossing a kind of, _‘You don’t see me,’_ smile to whomever he met, he made for the little-used south gallery. In the distance, he could still hear Athelrod and Bedivere’s twin cries of, _“My king? My lord!”_

The day had started out the same as they all had ever since he’d taken up residence in the castle: wake from a dream, a quick wash-up followed by a quicker bite to eat from the tray that was always on the sideboard. If the dream was different and the wash-up was from a chased silver basin with a bejeweled rim, well, everything else was the same. Meetings, confabs and audiences that he didn’t enjoy but tolerated because it moved business forward.

In an effort to break the expected monotony, Arthur had skipped out on the post-breakfast appointment with Bedivere and had hightailed it to the east side of the castle. His idea, too poorly formed and impulsive to be called a ‘plan _,’_ was to visit the sealed wing that had been his parent’s to if he could scrounge up any memories or mementoes. He’d just reached the massive door with its heavy locks and bars when he heard Bedivere’s, “My lord?” followed by the new steward’s, “My king, where are you? Are you here?”

Hand on the heavy door pull, Arthur hesitated. He could easily hide from Bedivere and Athelrod—the castle was big enough for that. He could admit defeat and return to Bedivere’s office and sit there until his ass grew numb. Neither suited him today, the former because he wasn’t a coward and the latter because he didn’t think he could stuff one more iota of protocol into his head.

He had one other option, though, and before he could talk himself out of it, he turned and headed for the side passage that would take him through the labyrinthine passages and down to the stables.

***

The stable boys were mucking out the back stalls when Arthur arrived. They were trading stories, laughing and being silly as they worked. When they saw him, they jumped to attention and bowed nervously and once more, Arthur wondered how long it was going to take for people to understand that he wasn’t his uncle. Probably forever because he’d been living at the castle for weeks now and they still eyed him as if he were a snake.

“Don’t mind me, lads,” he said as he went to choose a saddle. “I’m just here to stretch Old Top’s legs.” One of the boys giggled at his jest but the others didn’t react.

“My lord, do you need any help?” asked the boy that had laughed.

“No,” Arthur answered, hefting the saddle over his shoulder. “But you can get me that headgear.”

As one of the boys untied Botolf and backed him up, the first boy scurried off to choose a bridle. He returned with it just as fast and then watched Arthur saddle the horse. “Where are you off to, my lord?”

“Bran!” hissed the tallest boy.

Fastening the girth, Arthur looked up. “It’s all right. He can ask what he will.” He turned his gaze on the boy, Bran. “I’m off to Londinium for a night or so.”

“I’ve never been,” Bran said. “Is it nice?”

Arthur drew a breath to answer but someone got there first: “It’s smelly, overcrowded, and dangerous.”

Arthur straightened up to gaze over Botolf’s back.

Goosefat Bill was standing at the stable entrance, leaning against the doorjamb. He was wearing a heavy silk tunic and cloak, and carrying a bundle of something in his arms. Shrugging nonchalantly, he added, “Or did I exaggerate?”

“It’s all of those things, but do you think you convinced any of them?” He jerked his head towards the boys. “You just guaranteed they’re going to make a beeline for the city as soon as they have the opportunity. _”_ Arthur returned to his task, making sure the girth was tight. “Where are you off to, all togged out in your best?”

“I’m not off to anywhere. I just know how to dress for the weather. Boys?” Goosefat pushed away from the door. “Cook just pulled a tray of sticky buns out of the oven—why don’t you run off and get one? Tell her it was my suggestion.”

The boys silently streamed out, the cheeky one giving Arthur a last glance as he left the building.

Goosefat waited until they were alone, then strolled over to where Arthur was finishing up. “Off again, are you.”

“I thought I might,” Arthur answered, even though it hadn’t been a question.

“I suppose you haven’t asked Bedivere if you could borrow his favorite courser.”

“What do you think?”

Goosefat blinked. “How long will you be gone?”

“A sennight or so.”

“That’s what you said last time.”

“And I was.” Arthur smoothed the saddle’s skirt before moving around the horse. “Give or take a week.”

Goosefat stepped out of Arthur’s way and then stroked the courser’s jaw. The horse whickered softly and pushed into his hand. “Your coronation is in eight days.”

“I already had one.”

“That one was for show. This one is the official ceremony.”

Arthur tugged on the blanket and didn’t speak.

“And the lords Mark and Lot and the others? They came all this way to confirm their allegiance. Are they to just cool their heels in your vestibule?”

“They can set up camp in my bed, for all I care.” The temperature had dropped and he could see his own breath—it was going to be a cold ride. “Just ask them to change the sheets when they’re done and gone.”

Goosefat sighed. “My king.”

Gaze fixed on the saddle, on his own hands that weren’t doing anything but tightening things that didn’t need tightening, Arthur muttered, “I need to get away. That’s all.”

Goosefat didn’t say anything for a long moment. And then he gently rubbed the bridge of courser’s nose once more and stepped back. “Very well. A sennight.”

Arthur didn’t smile as he swung up into the saddle. “More or less.”

Goosefat sighed again. “My lord.”

“I’ll be back in seven days.” Arthur gathered the reins. “I promise.”

“Very well.” Goosefat nodded slowly. “I’ll hold you to it. And…” He gave Arthur a quick up and down. “…you really weren’t going like that, were you?”

At Arthur’s blank look of inquiry, Goosefat said, “Stop by the kitchens; there’s a meal waiting for you. And take this.” He lifted the bundle—it was a fur-lined cloak, a pair of gloves, and the sword. “It won’t matter if you’re gone a sennight or fortnight if you freeze to death on the way. Or get killed.”

Feeling a bit of a fool for forgetting the sword, Arthur took the scabbard without a word. He fastened it around his waist and then pulled on the cloak and gloves. Nodding shortly, he guided the courser around Goosefat. As he was preparing to canter out, he looked back.

“Remember—seven days,” Goosefat said with a sideways tip of his head, his breath obscuring his features. “Otherwise we’ll worry.”

Arthur nodded shortly and said, “Seven.”

_________________________

Spring

 

 

It was mostly pathetic, Arthur decided as he stared absently at the strip of earth just beyond the northernmost guardhouse. The head gardener, Huebald Somethingorother had come to him, saying that during his father’s day— _King Uther your father, that is to say_ —all the land was fertile even the most minor spots, producing every variety of fruit and vegetable.

Arthur had given Huebald Somethingorother leave to clear and plant though the improvement seemed to be pointless. Hunger had been part of his own life for so long, he’d never known anything else. But he was responsible for people now, whether he liked it or not and they needed to eat. Even if the plot was no bigger than three men laid end to end. Huebald was up there now, scraping at the rocky soil, trying to change nothing into something. Arthur sighed because Huebald was pushing sixty and half bent over and he should probably go help. But he didn’t—he just returned to his previous task, that of watching the new boys play at being knights.

“They are getting better.”

Arthur jerked and then sighed in annoyance. The mage and her cat-quiet step; she was always coming upon him unawares. He was starting to wonder if she did it on purpose, if it was a game to her. “That wouldn’t be hard, considering.”

The mage came to stand beside him. “I suppose,” she said.

She was wearing a tunic made of brown linen that was creased and stained; she’d been out with her animals again. “Still,” Arthur said as he rested his arms on the thick stone parapet. “It’s only been a few weeks. Who knows—maybe in a month’s time, we’ll be able to take on Hibernia or even Saxony.”

“Is that what you want, to expand your realm, to consolidate power?”

“Isn’t that what every king wants,” he returned sourly. “It was all Vortigern thought about.”

The mage lifted one thin shoulder. “I think if you were to use him as an example, you will find your reign very short indeed.”

Down below, George, Goosefat Bill, and Del strolled into the yard. The boys stopped what they were doing and gathered round the men. “And my father?”

“He was a good man. And a smart one. He knew that solidarity made the kingdom strong. He also knew that solidarity didn’t mean taking.”

George led a group of boys over to the right of court and Del stayed where he was. Goosefat strolled to the far left, his boys following like ducklings. Arthur grinned softly. Trust Goosefat to choose the area with the most shade. “Did you know him?”

The mage snorted softly. “Your father? How old do you think I am? No,” she said, leaning her elbows on the wall, too. “I knew _of_ him, as did we all.”

Arthur slanted her a look. “From Merlin?”

The mage nodded sedately.

“When am I to meet him?”

“When the time is right.”

“That’s what you say every time.”

“If you count, ‘every time’ as the two times you’ve asked, then yes, it is every time and no, it is not yet.”

Arthur hid a smile. George was showing Blue and the others how to block a punch. Goosefat had his sword out, and by the looks of it, was educating his ragtag cadre on how to hold it. One of the boys, a tall fellow by the name of Elured, stepped close and even from this distance and sharp angle, Arthur could see Elured’s brilliant smile, a response to whatever Goosefat had just said.

“And no,” he added because he felt the need for chatter, the sun suddenly too hot and the air too close. “I don’t want to expand the realm. I just want to make sure the people that live in it are safe. That they’re happy.”

“A commendable goal,” the mage replied. “And more than Vortigern ever attempted.”

Elured said something that made Goosefat laugh. “What a surprise,” Arthur muttered.

“Yes. He was very predictable in his unpredictability.” The mage turned to go. Then she paused. “Have you given any more thought to the midsummer festival?”

“We’ve been a little busy here.” Writing policy after policy. Rounding up and offering peace to the Black Legs that wanted it. Making and purchasing weapons, fortifying what needed fortifying, rebuilding what needed rebuilding—cash was flying out the door faster than it came in. If anyone but Tristan were handling the finances, Arthur would be nervous. “There’s still much to do.”

“I think you’ll find that a people needs happiness as much as security.”

Arthur looked over his shoulder. The mage was watching him steadily. “All right,” he conceded with a short nod. “I’ll speak to Athelrod.” He winked at her. “Maybe we’ll invite the Vikings.”

The mage pursed her lips in obvious annoyance, then slipped back into the shadows.

Grinning, Arthur turned back to find that Goosefat Bill had come to the middle of the ward and was staring straight up at him. Their gazes locked. It was an odd moment, almost as if they were standing only inches apart, sharing the heat of the day as well as the same breath. He bobbed his head. Bill smiled.

Sweating, his belly heavy and his chest warm, Arthur pushed away from the wall. He still had hours before the appointment with his Earl Marshal followed by the audience with the contingent from Northumbria. He’d help Huebald with the pathetic, pointless garden. After that, he’d visit the river for a quick soak.

***

“There. What did I tell you?”

“You told me, Huebald,” Arthur answered as he leaned on the rake. The strip of rocky soil was no more—now it was a rich ribbon of dark, loamy earth. Fat worms slid out of the soil and then squirmed quickly back in, as if surprised at the bright sun. “You did, indeed.”

“Raspberry brakes, herbs, and grapes,” Huebald mused from his seat on an elm stump. “We’ll see what we can fit in.” He tapped his chin. “Maybe even a plum tree or two.”

“I’ve never eaten a plum,” Arthur said.

“Nor have I,” Huebald answered. “But I’m certain they’re lovely.”

Arthur resisted the urge to ask the old man how he could be certain about something he’d never experienced and began gathering up the rakes and spades.

With a sigh and a groan, Huebald got to his feet. “Where are you off to now that you’ve helped the crazy old loon achieve his ambition?”

“I never called you a crazy old loon,” he answered, even though he sort of had. At least silently. “I was going to the river, but I think I’ll just rest here for a while.”

“That oak will make a proper place for a nap though it hasn’t yet leafed out.”

Arthur followed Huebald’s finger to a stand of sickly trees. “Which one is the oak?”

Huebald’s jaw dropped. “‘Which one’s the…’ Do you not know trees at all?”

“There aren’t a lot of trees in Londinium, Huebald.” A half-truth—there were trees but only in the posh areas of town.

“Yes, but…” Huebald shook his head. And then his expression softened and he bowed, formal and deep. “If you desire it, my lord, I will walk you through the wood and show you what’s what. It won’t take but an hour.”

Arthur hesitated only a moment, then dropped the gardening tools and gestured. “Lead on.”

***

The hour turned into three and when Arthur and Huebald emerged from the wood, it was getting on dinnertime.

His head swimming with the names of trees and bushes and flowers, Arthur said goodbye to Huebald when they reached the chapel. He’d missed his soak—a quick douse from the bowl in his chambers would have to do but when he strode through the door, he found his retinue waiting in a line. “How do you do that?” he said as he began to strip off. “Do you sit around and then, when you see me, hurry to get here first?”

The men’s expressions didn’t change but the pages grinned and glanced at each other.

The chamberlain gave the pages a withering glare, then pointed to the clothes on the floor. “We exist to serve, my lord,” he said as the boys rushed to pick the discarded clothing up.

“Well, you can go exist somewhere else. I know how to wash.” When none of them moved, Arthur huffed and then said, “All right, I’ll make it an order. If you’re not out of—”

That got them going and they trooped out, bowing as they scurried by.

The chamberlain was the last to the door and as he was leaving, Arthur called him back, “Gerbaut?”

The chamberlain stopped. “Yes, sire?”

“That patch of ground in the ward—the one by the west wall. What used to be there?”

“It was the mage garden, my lord. They grew medicinal herbs for the castle residents.”

“What happened to it?”

“There were no more mages, my lord, hence no need for their garden,” Gerbaut said dryly. “King Vortigern ordered it paved over.” He paused and lowered his gaze. “The bricks, however, kept rotting no matter what anyone did. Eventually the king gave up and ordered that we stay clear as it was corrupted with dark magic.”

Frowning, Arthur murmured, “Thank you.”

“Sire.” Gerbaut bowed and then left.

Arthur washed up, shivering a bit as he scrubbed his face, throat, and chest. It felt good being cold—he’d assumed that Camelot, being situated where it was, would mean cooler everything. He’d been wrong and it might be a smart idea to plant more shade trees in the wards. He’d ask Huebald’s advice when he found the time.

Picking up the towel to dry what he’d just washed, Arthur was still rubbing his neck when he spied something on the chest at the foot of the bed. It was a goblet and plate, both covered with heavy linen napkins. He peeked under both. Someone had thoughtfully brought him a plate of cheeses and wheat bread and—he bent low and sniffed—an almost colorless wine. He picked up the goblet and sipped cautiously. It didn’t taste like much, just a paler version of its darker cousins.

Still, it was wine and he sat on the chest and drank it down, then followed with the cheese and the bread. He ate absentmindedly, thinking of trees and gardens and for no reason at all, Bill, smiling up at him in the hot sun.

_________________________

Summer

 

 

“I said games, Wet Stick, _games.”_

“These are games, Arthur. See?” Tristan pointed to the men lunging and jumping about on the wide swath of newly-cut green. “There’s Kay going at it with Big Gilbert with broadswords and Agravain giving it to Small Gilbert with those quarterstaves. Even young Blue is having a go with those new boys.”

Arthur sighed. “Yes, but when I meant _games,_ I meant it in the fun, we-don’t-want-anyone-to-get-hurt kind, got it?”

Tristan just looked bewildered.

Standing at Arthur’s shoulder, Bill said, “The king needs to set an example for our guests, Tristan. If our men take it too far, the Vikings might, too, and then the king will be the one that answers for any deaths.”

Bill had been doing that more and more, stepping in to explain to the lads when Arthur couldn’t seem to drive his point home. Arthur had first thought it was because he’d suddenly lost command of the English language until he decided that things were changing too fast and the others couldn’t catch up. “That’s it exactly,” Arthur said, slinging an arm around Tristan’s shoulder. “See those longbeards over there?” He nodded to the milling group of Vikings standing off to the side. They were watching the festivities, frowning and stroking their beards. “If they see us going at it hammer n’ tongs, they’ll think that’s okay. They’ll think they can, too, and if they take one of those axes or those spathas and hurt one of our boys, well then, I’ll have to do something about it.” He squeezed Tristan’s shoulder. “And if I have to do something about it, it means I need to do it as England ’cause Arthur the brothel boy has gone by the wayside, if you take my meaning.”

Bill made a small noise, a clearing of his throat.

“So,” Tristan said after a long moment. “What do you want me to do?”

“Set some rules. Make it more formal like. Make it to the first touch or first tumble. No buckets of blood, no broken bones.” Arthur squeezed Tristan’s shoulder again and let him go.

Tristan glanced at Arthur and then at Bill.

“Talk to George,” Bill said patiently. “Ask him to come up with a minimal set of field rules using specific weapons and time limits.”

“And if he won’t?” Tristan asked with a frown.

“George is smart—he’ll understand the king’s request.”

“All right.” Tristan nodded, glanced between Arthur and Bill once more before loping off.

“He doesn’t get it,” Bill murmured. “He thinks it’s still just you fellows and no one else.”

“That was all right before, but now?” Arthur shook his head.

“I know,” Bill said. “Too much too soon. Treaties with our friends to the north and south, and now our enemies to the east. It’s just that we—” He broke off and glanced to the side.

Arthur shifted from foot to foot. In honor of the day, they’d all dressed in their finest. Bill was wearing a muted, deep blue surcoat that matched his eyes. “Say it,” he muttered, thinking that there’d been a time, and not too long ago, when he wouldn’t have noticed whether or not Bill’s eyes matched the color of anything.

Bill looked up and then smiled an odd smile. “It’s just that I think we all miss the brothel boy. That’s all.” And then he was gone, strolling across the bright grass, leaving Arthur to stare after.

Confusion and surprised anger vied for priority for only a brief moment of time. And then Arthur closed his mouth and stomped off in the opposite direction. His afternoon was free—he’d spend it in the yard working off his anger on the practice dummies.

***

 _Brothel boy,_ Arthur thought as he stabbed the straw man in the throat. _We miss the brothel boy,_ and he growled and twisted, slicing the straw head clean off. It popped up and went flying back to hit the stone wall. It bounced and rolled to his feet. He kicked it and it slammed against the wall again only this time it burst apart.

“Feeling better?”

Arthur turned slowly. Bill was standing behind him, a satchel over one shoulder and his sheathed sword in hand. He’d changed out of his finery and was wearing a worn undertunic and leather breeches. “Not even hardly.”

Bill strolled over to the bench and tossed the satchel down. Without turning around, he called out, “Care to take your mood out on the one who caused it and not this poor simulacrum of a man?”

Arthur waited until Bill had turned and then said, “If that word means what I think it means…” He bowed low in mock obeisance. “ _Á votre service, mon Seigneur_.”

Bill breathed a soft laugh and unsheathed his sword. He bowed, just as low as Arthur, and then with no word of warning, attacked.

Arthur responded. He took care to keep the sword’s power at bay but beyond that he let loose, driving Bill back when he could, driven back when Bill got the better of him. And gradually, too gradually to notice at the time, his foul mood paled and quieted, leaving only a wash of clean, simple tiredness.

It was probably the latter that proved a distraction. He’d just parried Bill’s thrust when he stumbled and then tripped. Arms wide, he fell back to the dirt. He began to laugh, partly because it had been a good fight but also because Bill looked so alarmed.

“I am unhurt,” he was able to say when he’d caught his breath. “You didn’t touch me.”

Bill reached for Arthur’s hand. “That’s a relief. Bedivere and the mage would not be happy if I caused you any harm.”

With Bill’s assistance, Arthur got to his feet. They were standing too close but he didn’t move. “And you?”

Bill smiled and then stepped back. He went to the bench and sheathed his sword. “My lord, I am always worried when you are injured.” He got something out of the satchel and then held it up. It was a small pot and a folded cloth. “Do you mind?”

Arthur followed Bill’s gaze, finding a cut on his shoulder under a patch of pink-stained linen. The wound was only a few inches long and so shallow it was really more of a scratch. He hadn’t even noticed the injury at the time and he shrugged. “If you must.”

“I must. And it will prevent any new scars.” Bill gave Arthur the pot, adding, “Hold that.” He pulled on the torn fabric, widening it a bit. “I’m sorry I ruined your new tunic.”

“I can get another.” Arthur pried the cap off the pot; inside was a paste that smelled of Mary’s Gold and beeswax. “I should have changed my clothes.”

“You should have.” Bill dipped the cloth in the unguent. “But it’s my fault. I upset you.” He smoothed the salve over the cut. “I should never have said such a thing to you and I’m sorry for it.”

The salve stung at first and then didn’t, a minor pain compared to the other, more immediate ache. “I’m not ashamed of being brought up in a brothel.”

“I know.”

“And if I had to do certain things to survive or use my body to make a few coins, I’m not ashamed of that, either.”

Bill gave him a quick glance and a quicker smile. He finished up, then retreated once more and folded the cloth in a neat square. “I know that, too.” He took the pot and put the cap back on.

Bewildered, Arthur watched as Bill put his things away. “Then what is it?”

Bill tugged the satchel over his shoulder and picked up his sword. He turned and looked at Arthur. “I know what this life is doing to you. What it’s _going_ to do you. And as much as I know you are the future of England, I sometimes regret ever bringing you into it.”

“And that’s all?”

Bill hesitated and then smiled blandly. “Yes, that’s all.”

Bill was so very clearly lying and if Arthur had any inclination to push it, he was forestalled by laughter and boasts as the contestants, led by George and Percival and Blue, strolled into the ward.

_________________________

Fall

 

 

Arthur bent his lips in a half smile as he looked around the tent. Everyone was having a time of it. The minstrels had taken a break and the muted roar of laughter and chitchat replaced the tambours, lutes, and pipes.

It was stuffy, though, for all that the canvas tent was open on four sides. Stuffy and smelly and normally he wouldn’t care but he was out of sorts. He’d woken up from another dream in the wee hours and hadn’t been able to sleep again.

“Your feast is going well. Everyone seems to be enjoying themselves.”

For once Arthur didn’t jump—he’d tracked the mage’s progress from the direction of the woods and then around the tent’s perimeter. He’d been surprised to see her, though; she must be feeling more at ease, to come out for all to see. “Yes, they are.”

“You are not enjoying yourself.”

He craned his head to look up at her. “Am I supposed to?”

The mage sat in William’s recently vacated chair. “I believe it is the custom when one is at a carouse. Sir Tristan and Sir Bedivere, for example, are doing a fine job of it.”

Arthur followed her gaze. Tristan was down on the left, making the Lady Iseult blush. In the far corner, Bedivere and Maggie were huddled together just out of reach of the torchlight. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about those two,” he said, nodding to Bedivere. “What’s their story?”

The mage picked up a cluster of grapes. “Oh, no,” she said with a sly shake of her head. “I am aware that you and your men have bet a large some of money on that subject. I will not be helping you win it.”

“Come on,” Arthur said, leaning closer, smelling the mage’s subtle scent; he was never sure if was natural or the end result of the magic she practiced, all those potions and philters. “I won’t tell.” And then he reached out and touched her arm, using the food and flowers and tableware for cover. “I promise.”

“Of course you will tell—it’s what you do. Men are such tittle-tattlers. And you might as well not bother.” She moved out of his reach and popped a grape in her mouth. “I have not the inclination and Sir William will not like it.”

Taken aback, Arthur couldn’t help a quick glance down the table. William had left his side four songs ago, first stopping to converse with that puppy, Elured, but quickly moving on to the Lady Creiddylad and her entourage. _‘What has William to do with anything?’_ Arthur wanted to growl but the mage was watching him with a tipped chin and opaque gaze as if waiting for such a question. So, he just shrugged his indifference and changed the subject: “Your herb garden is doing well.”

The mage raised an eyebrow at his turnabout but just said, “Everything is blooming, even the flowers and trees though it is not the right season and they hadn’t before. I think the living world is happy to have you here.” She ate another grape and then brushed off her hands, giving him another slanted look, this one diffident and unsure. “Thank you for the plot.”

“Of course.” Like iron to magnet, Arthur glanced at William once more. Feeling an odd uncertainty, he’d sought out William to ask him if it would be appropriate to offer the old garden to the mage. William had said yes, and that it would have the added benefit of mending the rift between mage and human caused by Vortigern so long ago. Arthur had visited the garden only that morning. He’d strolled along the dirt path among the comfrey, chamomile, and rosemary until he came upon a young apple tree near the western corner. The tree was only a sapling, supported by tall reeds and string, and not dreadful in any way. Still, he’d shivered when he saw it, as if he’d just seen a ghost.

“What is it?” the mage asked.

“Nothing,” he lied with a grin. The musicians had started up again, playing a light tempo that had the dancers up and moving in a ronde. “Except I need to visit the privy.”

The mage frowned but only said, “Then I will see you on the morrow or the next.”

With another false smile, Arthur got up but before he could step away, the mage laid a light hand on his arm.

“My lord,” she said and then stopped.

“Yes?”

The mage looked down and then up, her gaze no longer opaque or dispassionate. “With all that has happened, it is important to remember balance. Life without joy is a kind of lingering death.”

Arthur tightened his lips at the obtuse advice, then touched his hand to forehead in a brief salute. He skirted the table, nodding absently at Percival and George. On the other side of the tent, William had returned to Elured’s side. As Arthur watched, the boy reached out and clasped a light hand over William’s arm; William didn’t pull away.

Dark mood darkening, Arthur curled his lip and left the tent before he could do anything foolish.

*

With the option of in or out, Arthur ended up choosing the latter, crossing the green to climb the short, ancient flight of steps that led to the rear of the castle. Then it was through Huebald’s lush garden and into the wood. Trailed by the thready beat of music and safeguarded by the full-bellied moon, he made his way through the trees.

The mage had been right. Even though it was fall and time for the trees to begin their long sleep, the ash and oak and linden were covered with leaves, fruit, and blooms. He breathed deep, the linden’s heady scent easing the coiled knot that had made a permanent home in his breast ever since… Well, ever since ever.

He didn’t go far. His goal was a clearing that encircled a fallen altar stone. According to Huebald, the narrow stone had once belonged to the mages. After their eradication, the clearing provided a new use, that of a favorite spot for lovers old and young. This night, there were no lovers about; Arthur sat down and straddled the stone.

Raised in the city, accustomed to its ever-present noise and fetid smells, he’d found the clearing both peaceful and eerie. The altar rested in the dead middle, surrounded by bowed grass and a ring of trees so perfectly circular he’d first thought them cut down by man. He’d actually searched with boot toe and then hand, looking for stumps. He’d found nothing and he now thought that a mage had done it, magic’d away the trees, leaving only the green and stone, the latter for the sacred rites and the former for the game that called the wood home.

Bear, boar and once a white hart, Arthur never had any inclination to hunt the creatures that roamed the shadows. Though the place held no real significance for him, it still carried a bare hint of old magic—even he knew better than to stain it with simple death.

Death and joy, he thought, finally pulling the mage’s words free from their temporary hold. Death and joy and _William wouldn’t like it_.

He was quite familiar with death and all its ugly facets. Joy was a complete stranger and he couldn’t imagine what it would feel like. But…

But, _William wouldn’t like it._ Said as if the mage had been citing a fact as basic as _night is black_ or _water is wet_.

He wasn’t stupid.

He knew what it meant, those moments when he came across William unexpectedly and his heart leapt and his belly warmed. He knew what it meant, those times when he couldn’t sleep and he brought himself off, eyes closed tight, imagining it was William’s hand on his cock and not his own.

So, yes, he wasn’t stupid but he had assumed he was alone in this knowledge. The notion that the mage had any inkling…

It didn’t matter, of course. He didn’t care that she knew. If he ever did anything about it, it would be the Camelot version of a quick one in the alley because balanced out against this new realization was the decades that had come before. Cautions and _don’t you ever’s_ from Beatrice for she had schooled him at a very early age about the dangers of love. Like when he was ten and mooned about for a week over the fletcher’s daughter. Or later, fourteen and fidgety, when he’d fallen head over heels for the cooper’s dark-haired son. Rannulf had been his name, almost two years older, tall and so fair that even Beatrice and the girls had noticed him. Rannulf, who had always smiled at Arthur when their paths crossed. Who had drowned in a spring flood, swept away by the swift-flowing Thames as he’d tried to help his father rescue their goods.

Arthur had said nothing when he’d heard the news. He’d shrugged off Wet Stick’s sympathetic touch and Back Lack’s confused frown. Later, after he’d gone to bed three hours early because he was uncommonly tired, Beatrice had come up and sat by his bed. She’d stroked his hair off his forehead and said, _‘Love in general is a terrible thing, but first love is especially cruel. You’ll never feel this way again and that’s a good thing.’_

Arthur had turned his back but Beatrice hadn’t given up. She’d rubbed his shoulder and murmured, _‘Love isn’t for the likes of us, little mouse. It’s for people with money in their pocket and food in the larder.’_ She’d leaned over and kissed his temple, saying one final thing, _‘At the end of the day, it don’t matter if it’s a boy or a girl, I just want you to find someone that treats you nice and gives as much as you. Until then, guard your heart.’_

And Arthur had, practicing the mechanics of fucking with his eyes open and his heart firmly closed. It wasn’t the worst way to live a life but now, here in this place that held the ghosts of his parents and what might have been, he was starting to wond—

“What are you doing?”

Arthur twisted. William was standing at the edge of the clearing under a tall linden. “Nothing,” he said, his heart in his throat.

“You don’t have another bellyache, I hope. Your new cook’s menus leave much to be desired.”

“It’s not a bellyache and would you prefer to be back in the cave, dining on rabbits and beans?”

William snorted and stepped into the clearing. He was carrying a skin of wine and something wrapped in a piece of cloth. “No, thank you,” he said, “I much prefer my life as it is now.”

“As do I.”

“You could have fooled me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

William came over and then nodded. “Can you move over? I…”

Arthur scooted back, making room for William and whatever it was he was carrying.

“Thank you,” William murmured as he sat down. “And I meant nothing by it.”

“No,” Arthur said, weary of sidesteps and evasions, “you did, so out with it.”

William gave Arthur the side of his eye. “If you’re sure…”

“I’m sure,” Arthur said, his weariness refining and reforming to one of sharp impatience.

With a shrug, William said plainly, “It’s just that I don’t know who you are anymore. You go about your tasks as if you’re half asleep. You pardoned Rubio but he still spends most of his time in his room because he can’t seem to forgive himself. You finished your table, yes, and it’s a beautiful thing, but what is it for? You haven’t given any specifics and when Tristan asked you about it, you almost bit his head off. According to him, of course, because I wasn’t there, but I’ve never found him to be a liar. Quiet the opposite, in fact. And George, well, George is concerned that you’re spending too much time in the yard. He says perfecting the body and one’s skills are important, but so is healing and rest. As for Agnes and Phila, they both just say you look tired and you’re strangely quiet where before you were a bit of a chatterbox. Their phrasing, of course.”

Arthur tightened his lips and crossed his arms, his only answer against the barrage of words that were not quite accusations.

“Even now,” William added, leaning on one arm, “on a night when you should be laughing with your friends and eating your fill and dancing until morning, you end up here, by yourself and unhappy.”

“I’m not unhappy _,”_ Arthur said quickly. “I’m not,” he insisted when William gave him that familiar, _‘Sure you’re not,’_ smirk of their first acquaintance. And maybe it was only that skepticism that put his back up because he found himself demanding, “And what’s it to you? You don’t know me so you can’t compare the new me to the old me. Anyway, whoever knows anyone? Knowing someone that well can get you hurt or killed.”

“Like Back Lack?”

“Yeah, and Lucy and the girls and the rest.”

Slowly, William shook his head. “You don’t need me to tell you that Back Lack made his choice. He could have held on like Rubio but he made his end as he saw fit. As for Lucy, what befell her was a sad turn of events. I don’t need to tell you that, either.”

“And you don’t need _me_ to tell _you_ that none of that matters. If I hadn’t been born, they’d still be alive.”

William leaned forward. “That’s ridiculous. Any number of futures might have awaited your friends. For all you know, just by being with you made Back Lack’s life that much better. I would imagine that much could be said for the girls at the brothel. Beatrice and her girls were your protectors when you were young. When you grew up, you were their’s.” He bent his lips in a smile. “But you’re right in a way—it’s all rather beside the point for the very simple reason that if you hadn’t been born, we’d all be dead. Or on our way to it.”

There was a long moment of silence. Arthur could hear the creak of the trees and the music from the tent—the musicians had started another tune, this one solemn and rich with a low, heavy beat.

“In any case,” William said, sitting back and placing the wine skin and the cloth-covered object on the altar. “I brought this for you.”

Arthur reached out and nudged a fold of cloth aside, exposing a meat pie, a handful of nuts, and a pile of sugared rose petals.

“You didn’t eat enough,” Williams said softly, simply.

It was all there, the slew of questions and demands for Arthur was angry, and he opened his mouth but what came out was a surprising: “Did you know my mother?”

William raised an eyebrow. “Of course, I did. As well as I knew your father.”

He picked up a nut. “What was she like?”

“She was kind and generous,” William said slowly. “She loved your father and adored you. But,” he added, turning on the altar to face Arthur with legs crossed, “anyone could tell you that, so I shall tell you a story.” He rested his elbows on his knees and cocked his head. “It was the year after your birth. Your father was gone away up north having taken most of his lords with him. He ordered Bedivere and me to stay at the castle, tasking us with keeping the queen safe.” William smiled softly. “It was a sinecure of sorts and being younger, most of my new feathers were ruffled at the idea of being left behind. The queen must have known for I wasn’t shy of making my feelings known in those days, but she made no mention of it. She only asked Bedivere and me to join her for a picnic, Frankish style.

“And so we trouped out: the queen, her women, and the guard detail. We had our meal in the forest and I—”

“Here?” Arthur interrupted, gesturing to the clearing. It was spellbinding, William’s low voice and the images he brought forth. Almost like painting a portrait with just words. “Was it here?”

William raised an eyebrow and looked around. “As a matter a fact, it was. The queen loved this clearing. I’d forgotten that.” He smiled again. “In any case, after the meal, the queen asked her ladies to look after you and went to lay down for a nap in the shade. I skulked off to pout in the forest. I hadn’t been gone long when I heard great shouts and shrieks. I stormed back, dagger already out and cursing a blue streak because I’d left my bow in the armory.” He reached for the rose petals and picked them up. “But we weren’t being attacked by Vikings or the Picts. No, our enemy was much smaller and of the eight-legged variety.”

Arthur cocked his head. “A spider?”

William grinned and then gave Arthur the rose petals. “Indeed. It had climbed onto your blankets and was staring up at you. The women were screaming, the men were shouting and stamping about while waving their hands and swords, as if that would do anything. I was running up when the queen, still groggy from sleep, calmly walked up to you and flicked the spider off with just her hand. Then she said, ‘My lord Bedivere, would you be so kind as to make sure the creature is gone. If you cannot find it, no matter—it wasn’t causing any harm.’”

William laughed out loud, a warm sound that filled the clearing. “You would have thought she’d uttered the most foulest of curses—her women and the soldiers were that shocked. Even Bedivere just stood there with his mouth open.”

Arthur stared unseeingly at the rose petals. He’d only ever had that one image of his mother, her loving gaze turned to surprise as the spear pierced her belly. But now he had this story—it was a gift of immeasurable worth. “You loved her.”

William shrugged, his smile fading. “We all did. If I’d known what Vortigern and Mercier were planning, I would have never—” He cleared his throat and then swung his legs over the altar stone. “Well. I’m off to my rooms.” He placed his hands on his thighs. “Goodnight.”

Before he could think it through, Arthur leaned over and covered William’s hand with his own. “No. Stay.” He tightened his fingers. The collar of William’s tunic was untied, exposing smooth skin and a few curls of hair. Arthur had to grit his teeth against the sudden urge to bend close and kiss that exposed patch of skin. “Please.”

William didn’t move. And then he said, “I won’t pretend to misunderstand you, my lord.” He slowly freed his hand. “But, no.”

“Why not?”

“Because if your father was alive, he’d have my head on a pike.”

“If my father was the man you all say he was, he wouldn’t care.”

“He most certainly would, if only because you will marry to continue the Pendragon bloodline. The kingdom must remain whole. Liaisons, even casual ones, must be thought out carefully and then probably avoided.”

Arthur sat back and opened his hand. The rose petals were a sugary mess on his palm. The same mess had transferred to the back of William’s hand and he wanted so very badly to lick it off… “And if I were to think this out carefully?”

“My answer would still be no.”

“Is it the boy, Elured?”

William raised an eyebrow. “No. He means nothing to me.”

“The Lady Creiddylad?”

“Even less.”

He looked up. “Then why?”

William stared at Arthur with a steady, measuring look and then he shook his head. “I’ve given you many things, my king, but this I keep for myself.” He got to his feet and turned to go. “Eat the pie,” he said over his shoulder. “It’s quite good.”

Arthur didn’t move as William disappeared into the wood. He stared after, eyes blind to everything but…

But, _‘William wouldn’t like it’_ and ‘ _We miss the brothel boy’_ and now, ‘ _I have given you a great many things…’_

A cloak and gloves against the winter cold, a healing balm, and food in case he was hungry. Considered separately, each instance meant nothing. Taken together, however…

“Fuck that shit,” Arthur muttered as he jumped up.

He strode through the wood, leaping over logs and around the low brush. When he cleared the tree line he kept going, down the slope to the northern postern, the guards saluting as he hurried through.

When he reached the rampart that divided east from west, he didn’t hesitate. One last leg, through the east tower door and then up the winding staircase three treads at a time, each boot placed exactly so as if he’d done this a hundred times before. When he got to the uppermost floor, he didn’t stop to knock, but burst through the outer door and inner, coming to a stop in the bedroom.

William was standing by the foot of the bed, being disrobed by his squire, Benedick. Benedick, jumped and made a small sound like an “ _Eep,”_ clutching William’s surcoat to his chest.

William hadn’t moved. Arms still raised, he calmly inquired, “My lord?”

“Get out,” Arthur said to Benedick. “Now.”

The boy nodded several times even as he was scurrying off, still holding the surcoat.

“By morning the entire castle will know what just occurred,” William said, slowly lowering his arms. “Benedick has a liberal tongue.”

“I don’t care how friendly his tongue is,” Arthur retorted. The festival grounds lay far below William’s rooms but he could hear the tinny beat of the drums and the flutes. “Just as I don’t care if the entire kingdom knows.”

“And myself, have I no say?”

Arthur took a step forward. “You have. But I’m calling your lie for the thing it is.” One more step. “Or was it a series and not a singular event?”

William swallowed but he didn’t retreat. “My lord.”

“No,” Arthur said once more. He was an arrow’s length away, close enough to see the sheen of sweat on Williams’s temple and throat. “No. I want more than the supposed censure from a father I barely remember. I want more than your sorrow that the brothel boy is gone.”

William’s expression changed, a gradual darkening of brow. “I told you to be careful, my lord.”

“You think I give a _fuck_ about care?” Arthur said, making a sharp gesture. “I’ve lived my whole life on the edge of a fall and this is no different.” He shook his head, feeling the shake transform and plunge, down to his chest and belly until he was shivering as if it were dead winter. “You want this as much as I,” he added roughly. “Don’t tell me you don’t.”

“I—”

“The clothing, the clandestine meals that have appeared in my room as if by magic. The supper tonight—you could have easily whiled the evening away with the Lady Creiddylad or even Elured but you didn’t, you came to find me.”

“That means noth—”

Arthur made a sharp gesture, cutting off William’s pitiful excuses. “Don’t give me that shit. Not now.” His jaw was so tight it hurt but when he spoke again, his words came out soft and pleading, “Not now.”

William opened his mouth to answer and then, as if casting off a cloak that was too heavy, he straightened up. “And beyond?”

“This one night will suffice,” Arthur answered, unsure if it was a lie or not because his heart was pounding in his throat and temples and it was hard to think.

William nodded slowly. “This one night.”

 _Love isn’t for the likes of us,_ Beatrice had said. So, not love but simple lust and yes, he could work with that and he was about to accept the stricture when William hooked a finger in his belt. And pulled.

It was a brief kiss, the kind anyone would give but it was spark to tinder and Arthur groaned and bent his head, pressing William’s lips open with his own and…

…and William tasted of honeyed wine and honey itself, a sweet weighty flavor that made Arthur flush and burn, his head spinning the same as when he’d first held the sword. Dazed and bewitched, the world around him moving too fast and too slow both at the same time, and he shoved William towards the bed, not gently.

William fell onto the richly embroidered bedcover. Hunter to hunted, Arthur followed.

On all fours above, feeling as if he were the vulnerable one, the past grappled with the present, offering a confusion of memories and impressions. Arthur ignored both easily. For all the last months had been fraught with discontentment where he’d questioned his every move and very place in this new land, this felt right, this felt true and he had no doubts.

“What is it, my lord?”

Arthur bent down and brushed William’s mouth with his own. “Nothing. And no more ‘ _my lord’s’_ or ‘ _my king’s._ ’ In this place I’m just Arthur.”

“Very well, just Arthur.” William reached up and undid the top clasp of Arthur’s surcoat. “Who shall I be—Goosefat, Bill, or plain William?”

William’s fingers were cold against Arthur’s hot skin and he had to swallow before asking, “Who do you want to be?”

As if asked the most serious of questions, William’s smile faded. He cupped Arthur’s jaw. “I have been lord and captain, renegade and fugitive,” he murmured, stroking Arthur’s beard with his thumb. “For you, Arthur, I will be just me, just Will.”

William’s eyes were shining a deep, clear blue that hid nothing. Feeling the sharp edges of William’s rings and the sharper, _Love is not…_ Arthur kissed the hollow of Will’s palm and murmured, “Then it is settled. Arthur and Will we shall be.”

He would have added more for he was in that kind of mood but William leaned up and bit his bottom lip. Groaning, tumbling into the flood of black lust, Arthur settled onto William.

William hummed and arched up and Arthur thought, _‘Not love. Not love, but maybe joy.’_

***

The festival had long since broken up and except for sentry calls, all was silent. The moon had followed once more and was peering through the open window, casting her faint gleam of light across the bed. A cool breeze traced a path across the room, around the bed curtains and over Arthur’s bare back. He shivered at the pleasantness of it.

“Are you asleep?”

His cheek pressed against the linen sheet, Arthur smiled. “That is an odd question.”

“How so?”

He turned his head. Will was lying at an angle, one arm resting against the tall carved headboard, the other out akimbo. The pillows were scattered about, the bolster nowhere to be seen. “Because it’s only possible to answer it in one way.” He sat up and retrieved a pillow from under Will’s leg. “The only way to answer is if one is awake so one must, by necessity, _not_ be asleep.” He gave Will the pillow and then fished around for another that had fallen between the mattress and footboard.

“I suppose that is so,” Will sat up, too, and then gathered the covers to make the bed presentable while Arthur plumped and then put the pillows back where they’d been. When everything was set to rights, they both lay back down. Will rolled to his side and tucked his hand under the pillow. “I never thought about it that way.”

“Furthermore,” Arthur continued as he mirrored Will’s pose, on his side, his hand under the pillow, “if one _does_ ask it and the respondee _is_ asleep, well then, one might risk waking them and once again prove the foolishness of the question because then the sleeper is…?” Arthur cocked his head. “You guessed it—now awake.”

“Your wit is dazzling, my lord.”

Arthur grinned. “My wit may be dazzling but my body is less so.” His smiled softened. “You wore me out.”

Will smiled. “That was not my goal, but I am flattered nonetheless.”

“You should be,” Arthur said, eyes half closing. “For I meant it so.” He truly was worn out, though his tiredness carried a mix of elation and satisfaction, a push and pull that made him want to have another go while simultaneously want to not ever move again. “Who would of thought,” he mused, reaching for the leather-strung amulet that encircled Will’s throat.

“How so?”

He rubbed the amulet, a tiny figure of a saint riding over the body of a demon. “Earlier on. I thought you were so busy with the Elured and Lady Creiddylad that you noticed nothing but them.”

“Arthur,” Will said with a breath of a laugh, “I could be in a driving snowstorm and still notice you.”

The answer made Arthur’s chest ache. “For example?”

Will’s smile disappeared and he slipped his hand over Arthur’s. “I believe that is the only specimen I can offer.”

“No,” he said slowly, “That’s not it. I know you now. That was not the sum total of your answer.”

“And yet it is all I have to give,” Will said in a low, teasing tone as he leaned in close to kiss Arthur’s mouth.

“No,” Arthur said again, pushing Will back. Lust put aside, his brain was starting to work again. “You’re lying.”

Will hesitated, then said, “You will not understand.”

“That’s for me to decide.”

Will’s hesitation was longer this time and Arthur remembered the look from the early days: distant and measuring, almost unfriendly and definitely suspicious. “Very well,” Will finally said with a cautious nod. “But you should have figured this out for yourself long ago.”

“How so?”

“Think about it, Arthur,” Will said softly. “When your parents sent you off in that skiff, what were the chances that a boat of that size would make it all the way to Londinium? One in a hundred? In a million?”

“I don’t remember the size of the skiff nor much of the journey.” Just the smell of the furs and the tops of the trees and the sound the wind made as it flowed over the boat. “You’re saying it wasn’t by chance?”

“I’m saying that Merlin intervened. He protected you the entire way, guiding the boat from river to river in order to deliver you into the arms of Beatrice.”

Arthur couldn’t think of a thing to say.

“It was Merlin who thwarted the soldiers that Vortigern sent after you,” Will added. “The passage took more than a day; we were on tenterhooks until you arrived at the quay.”

Arthur stilled. And then he pulled free of Will’s loose grip and sat up. “ _‘We?’_ ” he quoted. “You mean you knew? You knew where I was that whole time?”

Will nodded. “Yes. Via Merlin and Bedivere, we knew. We received regular reports.”

“So you knew how I was living and you left me there to rot?”

“No,” Will said, rising as well to take Arthur’s arm. “We left you there because of all the sanctuaries in Britain, it was the safest place for you to be.”

“I don’t believe you,” Arthur growled as he jerked free. He shoved the covers back and swung a leg over the side of the bed. But he didn’t leave because he couldn’t. “And if I hadn’t survived?” he said without looking around.

“That would never have happened.”

“I was attacked almost every day from the moment I got on the streets. I caught an ague when I was eight. I near died.”

“But you didn’t.”

Arthur dismissed Will’s light assurance as memory after memory slid back. “And what about the days when I was hungry and so cold I thought my fingers would fall off? What of those times?”

“Your belly might have been empty from time to time but you were never in any real danger. Merlin made sure of it.”

“Merlin,” Arthur snarled, spitting the word as if it were a curse. “From a distance he manipulated me, you mean.”

“I mean nothing of the sort.” Will moved closer. “You survived because it was your destiny but you thrived because of who you are. When you became old enough and strong enough, we backed off.”

“So now you’re saying that you were all there?” Somehow that was worse. “Actually there?”

“Yes,” Will said evenly.

“Who is ‘we’ this time?”

“Over the years, Rubio and Percival and a few others. And me.”

“And you,” Arthur repeated flatly.

“Yes, me.” Will rested his hand on Arthur’s waist. “I was there when that gem trader hit you so hard his ring split your temple. I was there when George first accepted you into his yard.” He tightened his grip. “I was there when the Viking, Thorismund, tried to rape you behind the ironsmith’s shop.”

Arthur turned his head, just slightly. “The same Thorismund that was found floating in the Thames with two hunting arrows in his back?”

“The very same.” Close enough now, Will rubbed his cheek on Arthur’s shoulder. “The others that had hurt you… I told myself that you needed to be hard for your life to come, but that—” He made a noise deep in his throat. “I couldn’t let that one go. He had to pay for his temerity. You’d just turned twelve.”

“Why two arrows?”

“Because he’d hit you twice before he attacked you.”

Arthur hesitated, then reached for Will’s hand and brought it around so he was held in a loose embrace. “I never saw you.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“There were other times, weren’t there? Long after I was old enough and strong enough, I mean.”

“Yes.”

“And that last time? When you got caught at the brothel—what was that?”

Will shrugged. “Bedivere had a dream. We surmised that events were unfolding quickly and your time would soon be at hand. I decided—on my own, mind you—to reveal myself to you and see if I could convince you to join us.” He sighed, his breath warm on Arthur’s back. “In my haste, I was careless and ran into a cohort of Black Legs. They recognized me instantly. One of them was passably good with his dagger. You know the rest.”

Arthur thought on that, on the things Will had said and those he hadn’t. On capricious fate and sheer bloody good luck. If the Black Leg had been more than ‘passably good,’ would Will be just another rotting corpse hanging from a gibbet for the crows and kites? Or would he have been brought before Vortigern and branded publically a traitor? Knowing Vortigern as he did, Arthur thought it would have been the latter: to be shamed in front of all and then kept alive to be used until there was nothing left but flesh and bone and the spark of life. It made him burn with anger, it made his chest hurt all over again and he clasped Will’s hand, cradling it.

“They’d tried so many times and failed at each, Arthur. Nothing would have happened.”

“You don’t know that.”

“That’s true. I suppose it’s a blessing that none of us know the time of our death. It keeps us humble.”

For no reason at all, Arthur remembered his dream, the unwanted visitor he’d been harboring for almost a year now.

“What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“Are you sure?”

Arthur twisted and gave Will a sour look. “Have you been spying on me again?”

Will smiled and kissed Arthur’s shoulder, then said, “You forget how well I know you.”

“Hmph,” Arthur said, just as sourly as before. And then, because what was good for the goose was good for the gander and Will had given up his own secret, he muttered, “It’s just a dream.”

“Tell me.”

“There is little to relate,” he said, trying to recapture the flavor of the dream. “I’m lying under an apple tree.” He saw it once more, the island in the middle of a perfectly still lake and the yellow-barked tree with its wealth of round, white apples. The grass, he suddenly remembered, was green and lush, as comfortable as a fine mattress.

“Are you injured?”

“No. I’m not hurt but I’m tired.” He closed his eyes. “So tired, it’s as if I could sleep my life away.” He opened his eyes and turned.

Will’s expression had grown blank once more but when Arthur raised an eyebrow, he just smiled and said, “It sounds a pleasant enough fantasy. Shall we make you tired again so you can dream it anew?”

Will was once more holding onto his own thoughts but Arthur ignored the lie, favoring instead, “I thought it was to be one night.”

Will nuzzled Arthur’s neck and rubbed his belly, his hand splayed out. “Look for yourself—the moon is still high which means the night is still young.”

He toyed briefly with the idea of making Will beg but it was no use. He’d wanted Will for too long and no, once wasn’t enough, so with a sigh, he gave in and let Will tug him down.

***

Arthur strode towards the great hall, energy coursing through his body. He didn’t care that the meeting would be the usual rigmarole. He’d do his duty and then, if there were time after, he’d spend the rest of the day hunting. He’d invite Will; they could spend the day together.

“Well, lads,” he said as he marched into the hall and sat next to Tristan. “What’s on the agenda for today?” They were all there, including Will who didn’t look up as he took a seat.

“You’re in a good mood, my lord,” Bedivere said.

“You say that as if I’m never in a good mood,” Arthur replied.

Bedivere shot Will and George a quick glance and then said, “We were discussing Percival’s idea of expanding the farmland east and north of the castle. You know—the idea you didn’t want to discuss only two days ago?”

“Oh, that.” Arthur shrugged. “I’ve changed my mind. It’s a grand notion.”

No one spoke for a moment and then Bedivere leaned forward. “You changed your mind?”

“It’s the king’s prerogative, yes?” Arthur said easily. “Isn’t that what you’re always telling me?”

“It is,” Bedivere answered even as Percival asked, “Then the foresters can start clearing the way?”

“Yes, but they’ll start a half mile east of the clearing,” Arthur said. Will turned his gaze to the table top but all the others furrowed their brows. “You know,” Arthur added, “the meadow just beyond the tree line.”

“Do you mean where the standing stone rests, my lord?” Percival asked.

“The same. Once the mages grow in strength, they might want their clearing back.”

The men murmured and nodded and then began to get up.

“That’s it?” Arthur said as he leaned back and propped a leg on the table. “I thought you wanted to discuss the tax levies, Bedivere. Tristan, you said you had an idea about the Rubio issue. And George, didn’t you mention something about a new training field for the men?”

“That was last month, Arthur,” George said, sitting back down.

“There’s no time like the present, is there?” Arthur carefully did not look at Will. “Besides, I have yet to truly explain this…” And he stroked the table’s smooth surface thinking that not three hours prior he had stroked the equally smooth skin on Will’s back. “If you have the time, I’d like to make my proposal.”

The men sat down again, and as Arthur began explaining the idea behind the round table, he knew without having to look that Will was watching with a bland gaze and a mostly hidden a smile.

_________________________

Winter. Again.

 

 

It began to snow eight hours out of Londinium.

At the head of the host, Arthur guided the sure-footed mare along the road absentmindedly, his attention fading in and out in time with the muffled crunch of her hooves.

They’d been gone almost a month.

A trip to Londinium at the end of December, he’d planned on just a few days to review the ongoing repairs of the bridges as well as the demolition of the coliseum. And while the former had gone as expected, the latter had turned into a headache and a half.

The people, Arthur had been surprised to find, were very much against getting rid of the coliseum. It was one of their few means of amusement, according to the representatives that had met with Arthur and Bedivere. Not wanting to remind them that he’d grown up in the shadow of the old Roman structure—not literally, of course—and thus knew how little amusement the coliseum actually offered, Arthur had practiced patience and listened. The listening had led to alterations by his draughtsmen which led to objections from the town council which led to further proposals, and on and on until he thought he might go mad.

It was Bedivere who had restored harmony, suggesting that the coliseum be razed and a new tournament grounds built instead. Once more holding his tongue because the city needed new quarters more than they would ever need a tourney field, Arthur decided that valor was the better part of this battle and agreed. Bedivere had raised both eyebrows and Arthur had swallowed his smirk. He’d get his way eventually, even if he had to move the eastern fortifications himself. Besides, by then it was going on week three and he was anxious to get home. Back to his own rooms, back to the relative peace of the castle. Back to, well, everything.

“My lord?”

“What did I tell you about using those two words together, Bedivere?”

“Arthur. The men need a rest. They’re cold and they’re hungry.”

“I told them to eat before we set off.”

“Arthur.”

“If we push on through, we’ll be home in seventeen or eighteen hours. They can rest then.”

Instead of answering verbally, Bedivere reached over and caught Arthur’s cloak.

Irritated, Arthur turned to growl his displeasure but Bedivere jerked his head. Arthur twisted in the saddle. Huddled against the wind and snow, the men looked like colorless lumps. Blue, wrapped in Arthur’s bearskin coat, was hunched over with his eyes closed, his face pale.

Arthur sighed. “Very well. Send word down the line that we’ll make camp outside Amesbury.”

Bedivere let go and turned his horse around.

***

Within thirty minutes of arriving at Amesbury, Arthur was sipping warmed wine. Blue had nodded off the minute Arthur had ordered him to the cot. The boy was fast asleep, his face no longer the color of his name but a healthy pink.

“You are sure you’re not hungry?” Bedivere asked for what had to be the hundredth time.

Arthur gave him a look over the rim of his wine cup.

“All right, all right,” Bedivere answered with a smile. “Don’t take my head off.”

Arthur snorted.

“Besides, it just means more for me.”

“You can have all the fish stew you can handle, your royalship. It was never a favorite of mine.”

Bedivere nodded to the page. The boy went to the sideboard and fetched the pot. “Maggie always adds a pinch of cinnamon.”

“That sounds disgusting.”

The page quashed a grin as he ladled the soup into Bedivere’s bowl.

“Thank you,” Bedivere murmured to the page, adding to Arthur, “I assure you it is not.”

“Hm,” Arthur answered. One of the boys had placed several candles on the table—the soft shadows jumped and jerked with each flicker of flame.

Bedivere joined him, sitting in the chair opposite with a soft grunt. “She says it adds a hint of surprise.”

“You’re not sweetening the pot, mate.”

“Art?”

Arthur looked around as Tristan leaned into the tent.

Tristan jerked his thumb. “Are you going to want a bath? The boys are wondering if they should heat up the water.”

“In this weather?” Arthur shook his head. “Tell them they can have it for themselves. Better yet…” He stretched out a leg. “…tell them to go to bed.”

“Got it, boss.” Tristan disappeared.

“You’re too easy on them,” Bedivere said after a moment.

“Hm.”

“They expect _some_ commandments. You are the king, after all.”

“Being king doesn’t mean I have to make some poor sod stand in the freezing cold just so I can have a wash I don’t need.” He shrugged and then winked. “If I stink that much, you can share a tent with Percy.”

It was Bedivere’s turn to hum _._

“So,” Arthur said after a moment, pressing the lip of the tallest candle with his finger. The yellow wax spilled onto his nail. “How’s the situation between you and the Lady Margaret?”

Bedivere shook his head. “The wager has passed, Arthur. You’ll make no money off of me.”

“Seriously. What is it with you two?”

“We are merely friends.”

“And she’s fine with that?”

“Maggie spent years under Vortigern’s thumb. I imagine she’s content to go to her bed without a worry that she might be murdered in the morning.”

“So what you’re saying you don’t want to add to her burden.”

“Something like that.”

“Bollocks.”

Bedivere paused, then sat his bowl down and gestured to the pages. They picked up the dishes and pots and left the tent. “Enlighten me.”

“You know as well as I that she’s waiting for you to make your move. She’s probably been waiting for years but you’re too much of a gentleman to do anything about it.”

“You mean I respect her too much to—”

“Horseshit,” Arthur said with more than a little heat, resting his elbows on his knees. “You may respect her but it’s safer to worship from afar, isn’t it? No messy entanglements, no chance of a broken heart.”

Bedivere’s eyes widened and his mouth worked. He glanced Blue and then got up and went to his cot to prepare for bed.

“Yeah,” Arthur said absently, lazing back in the chair. “I get it. Risking one’s body on the field is one thing. Risking one’s heart is a completely different thing.”

And it was.

Because if the month in Londinium had shown him anything, it was that his own easy belief that one night with Will would satisfy him in any way was the same pile of horseshit because that one night had never been just that.

Oddly hesitant, telling himself that caution was a virtue, Arthur had waited all of two weeks before approaching Will again. He’d gone to the east tower after a bout with George on the pretext of asking Will for more of the salve for a wound so minor it was barely there. Will had opened the door and then smiled. Wound and caution put aside in a trice, Arthur stepped inside and closed the door. They’d gone at it while the birds sang outside and the sun moved across the sky.

After that, he found himself scratching on Will’s door every Friday until he added Tuesday. After _that_ , he stopped counting, too busy assuring himself that his interests were not the thing they were.

It had taken a journey to Londinium and the increasingly lonely days before it came upon him like the slow curl of the tide, the realization that he missed Will and not just as a bed warmer. He missed Will’s pithy wit, his steadfast concern for the good of the kingdom, his sharp obstinance and sharper mind.

Out reviewing the reconstruction of the west bridge, Arthur had been going along nicely and then, like an arrow from the sky, he had thought: _What is Will doing right now?_ and the space between his chest and belly ached as if he’d taken ill. The feeling had stayed with him all day and later that night in one of Vortigern’s lesser palaces, he had dismissed his dogged attendants and sat by the fire. Like a dying man appraising a mortal wound, he’d examined the feeling, marking the shape and depth of it, coming to the conclusion that the undesirable had already happened and some time ago. At any given time of the day he was deliriously happy, unreasonably sad, or somewhere in the middle. Food tasted better and music sounded sweeter. The dream hadn’t faded but now when he got out of bed, he paid it no mind.

If Beatrice were still alive he’d apologize profusely because she had been right—love was terrible.

“My lord?”

“Hm?” he said absently, thinking of the night before he’d left for Londinium. Unlike all the times before, it had been Will who’d come to his room, slipping in like a thief as Arthur had made the final preparations for the pre-dawn departure. In the middle of searching under the bed for a missing glove, he’d made some comment to the point that Will didn’t really need to stay behind to train the new boys, did he? Will answered by not answering, pulling Arthur to his feet, fingers already busy with clasps and ties.

Taken aback by Will’s ardor, Arthur had let Will run the show, cocooned under the covers because the temperature had dropped and Will was always cold. When they were done, both panting and Will just a heavy weight pushing him into the thick mattress, he had wanted to say once more, _‘Come with me,’_ but couldn’t. So he did the next best thing—he asked a silly question so Will would be forced to stay a little longer: _‘How was it, all those years ago, growing up in this monstrosity of a home?’_

Tentatively at first, Will had spoken, relating the ins and outs of a childhood raised not at Camelot but in Gwynedd where his father was a minor prince. His life had been one of love and laughter that continued when Uther Pendragon had proposed an alliance in an effort to push back the Saxon, Hengist. As an acknowledgement of this new bond, young Will had gone to live in the new stronghold of Camelot. There, he’d continued to thrive, learning skills such as the art of sword fighting, archery, and poetry.

Arthur had laughed when he heard that, now on his side, his legs entangled with Will’s. _‘So, you’re readying to storm Hengist’s stronghold and you find the time to learn a few rhymes about love and some such?’_ he had asked, still chuckling.

Will had tugged on a lock of Arthur’s hair and murmured, _‘Poetry isn’t just for courting.’_

Arthur had insisted on an example, sure that he was in the right; he wasn’t unfamiliar with rhymes and verse, though most were unfit for polite society. But then Will began to recite the story of Byrhtnoth of Essex. Only half listening at first, Arthur was soon enraptured. Using Will as a pillow, he rested there, hearing the words echo through flesh and air. The poem, one of valor and betrayal amid a great battle, had put him in a bittersweet mood that had ended with him on his back with Will between his thighs.

“My lord.”

‘ _…nor need we kill each other if you perform it, for gold we will fasten a truce with you. If you determine it, the mighti—_

“Arthur!”

Brought out of the moment, Arthur jerked. “What?” Bedivere had stopped with his fussing and was standing nearby, a folded blanket in his arms.

Bedivere shrugged one shoulder. “I asked if Blue has spoken to you.”

Arthur glanced at Blue—the boy was still sound asleep. “About?”

“About his desire to join your table.”

“That’s a given, when he’s older.”

“Tristan tells me that the boy has been fretting.” Bedivere sat down again. “Apparently some of the other lads have been teasing him about his parentage. Or lack thereof.”

“He’ll survive.”

“Survival is not the issue.”

“Then what is?”

“His happiness.” Bedivere reached over and clasped Arthur’s arm. “Talk to him. You were a supposed orphan for most of your life. Help him understand that it doesn’t make him any less of a man.”

Arthur examined Blue, seeing not the boy from a year ago but the boy he was now, grown tall and awkward, frowning all the time at everyone and everything. “Talking won’t heal that wound.”

Bedivere sat back with a shrug. “Well, you need do something because he went after Lord Montgomery’s son with an axe the other day.”

“Lord Montgomery’s son is a jumped-up ass who needs to learn to shut his mouth. As does Lord Montgomery.”

“Arthur.”

Arthur turned his gaze on Bedivere and then sighed. “Very well. I’ll think of something.”

“Thank you.”

“But talking is out.” He frowned. “He won’t listen.”

“It would help if he had a proper home.”

“He has a proper home.”

“He has a room in the western tower near Sir Tristan. That’s hardly what one would call ‘home.’”

“It’s more than he had in Londinium,” Arthur answered, adding grudgingly before Bedivere could chastise him anew, “What you really mean is he needs a dad.”

“Yes.”

“He had one, the best one.” Never been one for casual affection, Back Lack had nonetheless adored his son. “But I take your meaning.”

“There are several families in the castle and beyond that will take him in.

“He’ll never go willingly with a stranger.”

“Then what do you suggest?”

Arthur stroked his beard. Blue would only be comfortable with the familiar and though Tristan and George were steady fellows, there was only one real solution and he said slowly, “I’ll take him.”

“Come again?”

Arthur looked over at Bedivere, the idea gaining form. “I’ll adopt him. It won’t stop the chatter and he’ll have to deal with the other boys at some point, but it will give him a footing.”

“Arth—”

“Now that I’ve changed digs, there’s more than enough room.” He’d moved in the late fall, mostly because he wanted to live on his parents’ floor but also, not coincidentally, because a high bridge connected his floor to Will’s tower. “I’ll ask Tristan to write up the documents as soon as we get back home.”

“But, Arth—”

“It’s a done deal, Bedivere,” Arthur interrupted once more. “Besides, you’re always going on about my need for an heir. Blue will be mine.”

Bedivere’s expression darkened.

Arthur sighed, “What now?”

“You need your own heir from your own bloodline.” When Arthur didn’t respond, Bedivere leaned closer, his voice barely above a whisper, “The boy is from low stock. Yours is from a long line of kings and I thin—”

“Bedivere,” Arthur said pleasantly, reminding himself that Bedivere meant no real harm. “That boy’s father kept me alive more times than I can’t count. I loved him. Don’t you ever say such a thing to me again.”

There was a sick, thick silence. And then Bedivere sighed and straightened up. “I’m sorry. I spoke out of turn. I think I have been away from the castle for too long. I’m anxious to get back.”

 _‘You and me both, mate’_ Arthur thought but didn’t say.

“Besides, it really won’t matter,” Bedivere added as he got to his feet. “Once you marry, you’ll will most like have a legitimate heir and that will appease any naysayers.”

“Don’t count those chickens, Bedivere. Marriage is the last thing on my mind right now.”

“I—” Bedivere began to stutter once more and then he stopped and shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s fairly simple. I’ve a kingdom to run, alliances to form, and no time for dalliances.”

“Who said anything about dalliances? I merely meant that at the proper time, you will marry and produce an heir. It’s the way of things.”

Once more on the edge of anger, Arthur shifted in his seat. If he were at the castle, he’d simply get up and leave. “It might have been the way of things for every other king, but not me.”

Bedivere shook his head again. “This is something you cannot not do, my lord. You _must_ marry. Every king from time immemorial has done so. We’ve all discussed it and it’s—”

“Who?” Arthur demanded as he tipped his chin, no longer on the edge of anger but right in the middle, thigh deep and furious. “Who has discussed this very personal, very private matter?”

Bedivere shifted the blanket from arm to arm, then answered quietly, “Myself and the others.”

Arthur gazed at his hands, not wanting to ask what he had to ask. Will hadn’t said anything about marriage, not for months… “And Goosefat? Was he there, too?” His face was hot as if he’d stepped too close to a fire.

“For a time,” Bedivere answered slowly.

“What did he say?”

“I—” Bedivere smoothed the blanket. “Nothing much. When Percival spoke of it, Goosefat said he had lads waiting on the archery field and that we were all a bunch of gossips and would do well to leave the matter alone.”

“I see.”

“He left right after. It has been a while since I’ve seen him so angry.”

Picturing the scene in his mind, Arthur’s anger slipped and cooled. There could only be one reason for Will’s reaction and though neither had exacted promises or assurances, it was a sweet thing, knowing he wasn’t in this on his own. “Bedivere?” He was about to give up too much information but he needed to have it out so there’d be no misunderstanding. “If you were forced to wed anyone other than Margaret, would you do so?”

Eyes narrowing Bedivere said nothing.

“I see by your expression you would not.”

“It’s not the same.”

“Yes it is, and as we both know what we’re talking about, I’ll make this plain.” He leaned forward. “I’ll not give him up. Not for you, not for the kingdom, not for anyone.”

Stony blank, Bedivere said nothing.

Arthur tried again, offering that much more: “He makes things better for me. I need him; that’s the long and short of it.”

This time Bedivere dropped his gaze to the ground. He nodded.

“To appease you old women, I’ll do you all one better,” Arthur added, feeling magnanimous for the admission had been a surprising relief, bracing and cold like the shock of a spring freshet. “When I adopt Blue, it shall be under the condition that if I ever have my own children, they will share the kingdom.”

Bedivere wasn’t happy, but he nodded shortly.

“Blue won’t mind and no doubt won’t even want any of it. He’s always going on about sailing across the sea to Gaul and some place called Cordova.”

Bedivere nodded again.

“He wants to be an adventurer. I told him he could do as he liked as soon as he came of age.”

“He asked to be called, ‘Tom.’”

Arthur cocked his head. “Come again?”

Bedivere looked up. “The boy, Blue—he asked me the other day if he could change his name to Tom.” Once more Bedivere sighed deeply. “Apparently, it was the name his mother had chosen for him at the time of his birth. Her father was Thomas of Lincolnshire.”

“Well then, Tom it is,” Arthur said. “Tom of Lincolnshire.” The exhilaration was fading, leaving him twitchy and skittish. The brief mentions of Will had a separate effect and if he were alone, he’d do something about it. But…

He jumped to his feet. “I’ve just decided—I’m not nearly as tired as you. I’m going to continue on alone.” He strode to the pile of clothing and pulled on the bearskin coat Blue had taken off earlier. “You come along when the weather is more suitable for travel.”

“My lord?”

“It’s only another few miles.” Gloves were next and then his new woolen scarf, a gift from Will given during the Yule celebrations. “I’ll be fine.”

“It’s fifty miles to Slaughterbridge. Will you at least take your retinue?”

“No, they need their rest.”

“My lor—”

“Bedivere,” Arthur said, “has anyone told you that you worry too much? Besides…” He reached for the sword and held it up. “I’ve got this.”

“That’s not enough if you’re attacked by bears or wolves.”

“Then I’ll just have to make sure I’m not attacked by bears or wolves, now won’t I?” He winked.

Bedivere rolled his eyes but he only said, “I’ll see if I can find something for you to eat.”

***

Feeling a certain satisfaction, Arthur took Botolf and not his mare. He mounted the courser and said goodbye to his confused men and then rode across the field to the snowy road. He urged Botolf on at a fast clip, his head down, anticipation already warming his throat and chest.

***

He reached the causeway by dawn and the bridge shortly after. The guards challenged and then, within the same breath, recognized him. They called out eager salutations and ran to open the gate.

His arrival at the stables was an equal surprise and the stable boys tumbled and stumbled out of their cots. One of the boys took Botolf’s reins and then swore sleepily when the courser shook off the snow with shudder and swish of his tail. Murmuring his thanks to Botolf for the swift journey, Arthur left the stables.

Other than a scullery maid on her way to the kitchens, there was no one about as he made his way across the snowy courtyard. Will’s windows, he wasn’t surprised to find, were closed tight.

Using the postern door, Arthur pictured it: padding up the winding steps and through the door. He’d dismiss Will’s squire and wait for the boy to leave. Then, into the chamber with its curtained bed and sleeping occupant. He’d disrobe, throwing his clothes on the chair Will had placed for that very purpose. When he was naked as a babe, he’d pull back the curtains. Will, always a sound sleeper, would take no notice as he slid under the pile furs and sheets. Only when Arthur had pressed his cold nakedness against Will’s warmth would Will startle and murmur, saying something like, _‘There you are,’_ or perhaps even, _‘I missed you,’_ the sweetest love talk of all because Will only said things like that when he was half asleep.

And then…

Breath caught in his throat, unable to stop the nonsensical, silly smile, Arthur opened Will’s tower door and began to run.

 

 

_fin._

**Author's Note:**

> A couple words of warning: this was beta'd by a friend, wolkendunst1, but each and every mistake is mine. And, like the movie, I've played fast and loose with fact, borrowing on several hundred year's worth of history and legend. In regards to references: the white apples in Arthur's dream is a nod to Gwenhwyfar and the grassy bed, of course, is Arthur's resting place in Avalon.


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